


Sweet Release

by BlueGirl22



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, I wrote this after watching the bootleg with mdoyle asocha and gcanonico as the three leads, Multi, but I think you can get away with envisioning the actors of your choice, much like me in the ninth grade, so those were who I was picturing, this is short purple prosed as hell and contains nothing but the most distilled purified angst, tw for suicidal thoughts/actions and all their associated trappings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 09:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18913762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueGirl22/pseuds/BlueGirl22
Summary: After the events of that winter, Melchior tries so hard to be good. He really does. He earnestly tries to stick to his resolve of carrying on where his dearest couldn't, and of bringing their story to people who need to hear it. But, living with both the memories and with himself sometimes becomes too much to bear, and he again needs the help of benevolent shadows to get him through.





	Sweet Release

There is no sensation Melchior loves more than that of when he first feels Moritz and Wendla’s hands come to land on him. He can never see them, and it’s only sometimes that he can hear their voices, and even then, it's almost as if through a seashell, but they always touch him just like they did in life. One might expect the touch of a ghost to be cold, but, to him at least, they’re always _so_ warm.

He feels Moritz by his shoulder and suddenly his skin is alive under the invisible outline of outstretched fingers, his head bending over to lean into it. He closes his eyes, Wendla’s hand wraps over the top of his, and he brings it to his face to kiss. For a blessed moment, his lets his mind clear out and he pretends that this is how it always is. He builds a little world around this one feeling of peace and bliss.

For a few seconds, it isn’t alone and, most often, drunk that he comes back to this little rented room every night. No, this is a space for all of them. He’s not living at a dead-end and half-destitute at seventeen, this is merely where they’ve come to a halt for the time being before they move to somewhere proper in the city. Melchior and Wendla go out to their respective workplaces each day while Moritz stays in with the baby. It wasn’t the harsh greyish light blaring in through the thin curtains that woke him that morning, but Moritz’s arm flying out too far to the side and slapping him in the face.

Of course, almost the very second he’s found himself safely living in his fantasy is the second the phantom hands turn to mist in his grasp and he’s jolted roughly back into reality. His eyes snap open and, as a tear hits the back of his hand, he’s forced to take in his real surroundings. He's not sharing a sweet moment with the ones he loves, he's hunched over a bathtub, crying into his collar, with a razor once again clutched in his right hand.

It takes a lot to get the two of them to manifest.

He takes another minute to compose himself as he tries to slow his wild sobs. He can feel that they're getting tired of stopping him every time he tries something like this. They must be angry with him at this point. They _always_ do their best to make him better, and then he goes and pulls this stunt. Again. He knows that, at some point, there will come a time when they don't appear to him when he dips low like this. One day, he’s going to bring the blade to his skin and there will be nothing to impede its course. He doesn’t really care, though. While doing this makes him feel ashamed and foul and humiliated for needing their help again, it comes with the guarantee that it will end either with their arms around him, or with his own destruction. Both hold their own appeal.

He rakes in a deep breath through his nose and rocks backward to his knees. He’s reckons he’s about calmed down enough to get up from his spot on the bathroom floor. Before he stands, however, the light from the gas lamp glints off the blade that’s still in his hand. His left hand goes to close it, but he can’t quite bring himself to do it yet. The longer he looks, the more he feels like he’s going to start crying again and repeat the whole ordeal. Quickly, he presses it against his left index finger until a bead of ruby red blood blossoms on its tip.

The rushing feeling in his skull slows down and he gets shakily to his feet. He closes the razor and puts it down on the washstand with a clatter, in place for when he next feels cause to pick it up. His chest is hollow and there’s a sick feeling in his throat, but he leaves the bathroom and collapses on his bed to sleep anyway. As he drifts off, his hand wanders absentmindedly to where Moritz’s had just been on his shoulder, and his bleeding finger leaves a red mark.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry...  
> anyway, as you may well know by now, you can find me on tumblr @bisexual-evanhansen, or you can just leave a comment to catch my attention


End file.
